Arrividerci Roma

24.11.10 – 28.11.10

It’s everywhere in Rome. L’Amore. Couples kissing in every corner and archway. Maybe it is the result of all the flesh on display in marble, everywhere. The ancient Romans mostly laid a tasteful thin layer of cloth across the gentle undulations of the human form, or a fig leaf, but truly, it got completely out of hand later and it’s all there is 3D. And they are all so perfectly slim, trim, perky, or cut. Talk about abs! You were never going to get immortalised if you were too keen on dessert.

We have a feast of all that, and all the art you could poke a paintbrush at, today. It is Villa Borghese day, the massive park with a stately pile in the centre and several other generous sized buildings scattered around the grounds, all now owned by the state.

Scipione, the Pope’s nephew (and, flaunting something I just learned, did you know that nepotism comes from the word for nephew because the Pope traditionally gave the equivalent role of Secretary of State to his nephew). Where was I? Oh yes, the Pope’s nephew was put in charge of his collection and he got all the guys on to painting, sculpting and generally making the Villa Borghese and its collection an outstanding place for us to pop along and fill in a lazy half day in 2010. Thanks, mate, excellent.

It’s in a huge park that must be a real oasis in the heat of summer, but, oh, the building and its statues and paintings! Enough said. We’ve learned a lot about Raphael and there are plenty to see here, including his self-portraits and the statue of David with Raphael’s own face. And with a slingshot. He could have sorted out some of those damned dogs we met along the way. The Bernini statues, oh so exquisite, so fine, how on earth do you carve marble so that you can see the press of fingers in flesh? And there is a delightful statue of Pauline Borghese, Napoleon’s sister, I can’t remember by whom, reclining on a divan. Oops, careless girl, she’s mislaid her top.

I follow this high culture with a haircut. There is a hairdresser opposite our apartment and I take pot luck. What fun, he comes from a career in the movies, is married to a Danish woman and had Queen Margarethe as a client, among many other famous people. Now in later life he just wants to enjoy quiet life as a solo hair artiste. Jacques Fontaine, and the photos on the walls all tell a story about someone or other. It should have taken an hour or so but I’m there for two hours as he leans on his comb and we rabbit on.

Then as evening falls we wander down to the Trevi Fountain again and stand transfixed by it lit at night. I stand there staring at it and thinking, “ I don’t know if I can go home and not see this again.” Nothing like being a tourist to give you a good appetite, though, and it’s pasta time. We’re eating our cannelloni, a stooped old man comes in and plays a lute, then goes between the tables collecting tips. The staff is chatting, the girl on the cash register is singing to herself, it’s getting late. Another lovely day in Rome. I really like this city.



Next day we’re off to the Pantheon. It sounds like it’s worth a look, but the real drawcard is that Raphael’s tomb is in there and I just have to see it. What’s this, a piazza we passed on our first day and liked, but now we know what we’re looking at and that just has to be a Bernini fountain, two actually. We consult the guidebook. Yes! That was one busy boy, and handy with a hatchet and a block of stone. Three laps around the square, stopping every two metres to exclaim some more, and another bookfull of photos, and we head for the Pantheon. Raphael’s tomb, and it’s beautiful inscription, I can’t recall the exact wording but it was along the lines of “When he lived, Nature was afraid that he would outdo her, and when he died, she was afraid everything would die with him. “ I had a moment, one of the highlights, pass a tissue.

Then out again, have I mentioned that the weather has been a bit iffy? Apparently there has been no rain for 6 months, it was all saved up for our week in Rome. So we walk out into the square outside the Pantheon; it is getting set for a major Bolsena and there is a freezing wind whipping up. We take the easy way out and scuttle back to our warm dry apartment.



R is on strike. He will not step into another church. I remind him that half the art in Italy is to be found right on the walls inside churches. It makes no difference, he has reached the plimsoll line and the sight of another altar is going to sink the ship. So I say, “No problem, you go and find a bar, but there are just a couple of churches I need to visit while we’re here. “ No, he’ll come with me just to keep me company and wait outside. But it’s no good, the first one, Santa Maria Maggiore has Bernini’s tomb inside, I have to see that, and he can’t resist either. Then the next, St Peter in Chains, has the Michelangelo Moses, so there we are both inside with the camera going. (St Peter in Chains is named that because, get ready, there are the actual chains that bound St Peter as a relic in a glass case.)

The Princess Eudoxia was given them by her Empress mother who received them from the hand of the Bishop of Jerusalem himself, so they are obviously the real deal, and very dramatic they look, draped tastefully and well lit for the faithful. And Eudoxia built the church especially to house them. Actually there is another church that goes one better, having the actual heads of both St Peter and St Paul in silver boxes. Another has the finger of St Thomas, and there are enough bits of the true cross here and there to build a house. However after St Peter in Chains I can see that we have finished with churches.

I have, however, not quite seen enough of the crew of painters who I have come to feel quite attached to, meeting them all along the way. They did get around, these boys. Something very fascinating has struck me. I bought an historical novel about the Wars of the Roses in England and realised with a start that it was the same time, roughly speaking, as all of these new favourite artists. So I did a chronology of them and cross- referenced them with the battles of the Wars of the Roses. I clearly have too much time on my hands and need to come home and get back to work.



Just a couple of Palazzos before I do… I did want to see how the rich and famous lived, not turned into a gallery, but sort of how they lived in real life. And I strike gold in the final place we visit in Rome, a palace with the family rooms on display, Palazzo Doria Pamphili. The family portraits are on on the walls, the furniture is in the rooms, and there is a massive collection of personally collected and owned art on every square centimetre of wall, but, most interesting of all, it is a palazzo where the family still lives. It is gorgeous, lush, magnificent, beautiful. The audio guide is narrated by the son of the current Princess, welcoming us to his home, and explaining that in the early 1800s the first English wife married into the family, several more have followed and the family is all educated in England and speaks more English in the family than Italian. (I wonder if he says that in the Italian version). But the portrait of that first English wife, Mary Talbot, is on the wall, and the guide explains that (get your hanky ready) when she died, her husband, devastated by grief, retired to his country villa and had a box hedge planted that was trimmed to say her name; it was placed so that it was the first thing he saw in the morning every day when he looked out of his window.

I can’t tear myself away, even looking at the highlights in each room has taken a couple of hours. R leaves for a while, comes back, then fainting with hunger and gallery fatigue, suggests that we have given it a good crack and it’s time for lunch.

Good suggestion. After all, Italy is as much about food as art. We have done well with both over the last two months. Italy is a great country, with a fabulous legacy of beauty from its artists, and with sensational scenery. It seems like a long time since we stepped out onto the road at Besancon and started to put one foot in front of another, walking through three countries on our way to Rome. Now it’s time to leave.